Page 12 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

It’s as if the walls of the church are closing in on me, and I’m struck with the agonizing realization that I’m utterly alone. The magnitude of the lie I’m about to commit in front of God, the life sentence I’m about to willingly walk into, hits me like a ton of bricks.

Finally, the priest asks the question that’s supposed to seal my fate: “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

I know if I disrespect this man in front of everyone, then it’s not just my own death I have to worry about. Emma and Lucy don’t deserve what will become of them because of my disobedience.

Neither does my mother; she’s already lost one daughter.

“I do,” slips from my lips, a whispered betrayal of everything I ever wanted, ever dreamed of. The words hang in the air like a death sentence.

In that moment, it’s like I’m an observer, watching from a distance as I sabotage my own life. I’m locked in now, bound to a destiny I never wanted. There’s no going back.

I peer up at Mikhail, but oddly enough, I don’t see a look of triumph on his face. Not even when the priest says ‘you may kiss the bride.’ Not even after he kisses me and we’re declared husband and wife.

But one thing is for certain: the life I fought so hard to build is gone. I’m locked in, and not only are the walls closing in on me, they’ve already sealed shut.

MIKHAIL

The limousine’s leather seats are cool beneath me, almost as icy as the tension that fills the air. Gabriette sits at the other end, her posture rigid and her eyes forward.

The glittering dress she wears does little to mask the unease that emanates from her. I should be focusing on the future, on the power that this marriage will bring, but my gaze keeps drifting back to her.

She doesn’t say a word as we drive to the reception, but she doesn’t have to. Her whole aura is like a storm waiting to break, and I find myself both dreading and anticipating the moment it does.

This tiny woman is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. When we discussed the terms of our arrangement, her eyes had that defiant glint, like she was daring me to underestimate her.

And that fucking mouth of hers. It pisses me off and gets my dick hard.

Most women cower in my presence; Gabriette, on the other hand, seems as if she’s itching to challenge me at every turn. It’s … intriguing, even if I won’t admit it to myself.

As the limousine glides to a stop in front of the grand reception hall, I can’t help but let my eyes drift towards her.

She’s staring out the window, her face set in a look of defiance despite the clear tension in her posture. The stark contrast between her boldness and her obvious apprehension has me wondering why she’s determined to defy me.

I step out of the vehicle first, per custom. Holding out my hand for her, I prepare myself for her likely refusal, but she surprises me. Her fingers slip into mine—tentative, yet with a reluctance that seems more like an open challenge than submission.

“You’re such a gentleman,” she hisses softly as she steps onto the pavement.

I tighten my grip momentarily, holding her gaze. “Only for today,Malyshka,” I reply, my voice icy. “And only when needed.”

She trembles in my arms and her face seems to pale under my gaze, but that ‘fuck you’ look is still in her eyes. This fucking woman.

We arrive, and a crowd gathers around us, eager to offer their congratulations and kiss ass before I’m even inside the fucking reception hall.

“Smile,” I lean down and whisper in her ear. “We’re not at a damn funeral.”

She turns to me with a sweet smile, her eyes cold but alive. “Says you,” she whispers back, then she kisses my cheek, but it might as well have been a knife to my throat.

This tiny woman, barely reaching my shoulders, is a fucking paradox. She looks like a kitten, docile and obedient, but she has the fucking heart of a seasoned gangster.

The contract between her father and mine means I should see her as nothing more than a business transaction. A stipulation my father needed so I could take over from him as Pakhan.

Marry a Lombardi and get the routes and connections the Bratva requires, that’s all there is to it.

But Gabriette is proving difficult to categorize, much less ignore.

As we walk into the reception, her arm threaded through mine for appearances, she remains silent with her back straight. Her lips, a shade of red that would usually demand attention, are set in a straight line.

I hate the fact that she’s made me want to strip back her layers to see what’s underneath. This curiosity is stirring up old memories I’d rather forget. I can’t afford the distraction; I shouldn’t even entertain the thought.

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